Assorted Contents



I'm eating those fun-sized candy bars but not having much "fun" while doing it. I'm thinking of suing the manufacturer for false advertising.

Yes, a skinny cook can't be trusted, but a fat cook probably double-dipped his spoon in your soup.

What do you call it when a Sage has nothing to say?


A friend of mine recently had her purse stolen, and like most people do, she blamed herself for leaving it unattended. But with so many fuckwads in society just waiting for an opportunity to prey on others, should we really blame ourselves for something like that? It's like we live in a world now where if we don't constantly hold on to things, someone apparently flips a switch that turns off the laws of gravity and anything not weighed down suddenly flies out into space (or into the hands of some bottom-dwelling fuckwads -- wads for short).

Being the supportive friend that I am, I told her to hang in there -- but maybe I should have said hang ON to something, since we just can't trust gravity anymore.

My favorite game is to turn the radio dial in the car to static and pretend I'm the last man on earth. Then I'll stumble out of my car at a country filling station and crawl toward the startled attendant, screaming, "Thank God I'm not the last one!"

Why can't things arrive when you "most" expect it?

When all is said and done, there's probably a Sage somewhere that will say it all over again -- and again and again.

What do you call a King without a mandate?



10)  Just God playing connect the dots again.

Mother Earth wanted a couple of really nice tattoos.

The Aliens are fucking with us: but crop circles aren't really complex, they're just an encrypted recipe for McDonald's secret sauce.

They're handy coasters for the Jolly Green Giant's frosty beverages.
Someone in heaven has a really bad cough.

Jeb and Cooter are at it again with a rope and a couple wood planks.

They're government funded dumb-people magnets.

Bored alien children are using the earth as a giant Etch-A-Sketch.

They're the Satanic rituals of devil-worshipping field mice.
Some people have WAY too much time on their hands.

I read that if you use the following words -- bustin', feel, beat, loose, shake, meat, disco, heat, pump it up, joint, jumpin', humpin, feet, stompin' -- that almost any fool can instantly create a top 40 disco hit. Lets see what kind of fool am I. 

   Pump it up
   Feet are stompin'
   The joint is jumpin'
   You'll be humpin'

   Bustin loose
   Feel the beat
   Disco heat
   Shake your meat

Well, shake my booty! I can already envision myself adorned in a lime green polyester suit, while hitting the dance floor with such a dazzling flurry of hip gyrations that John Travolta would immediately rent a wheelchair. 

But enough already about my epileptic seizure.

How many times can you hit your funny bone before it's not funny anymore?

Isn't it curious that whenever you gain the confidence that you will never be led astray by anything ever again, some nice villagers stick you in a boiling pot with the local missionaries. That is the universal system of checks and balances at work. If you get a big head, the TAO finds some crazed, murderous savages to shrink it down to size and put it on a stick.

Always put your best foot forward -- unless you're standing on the edge of a cliff.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush -- if you flunked math class.

As I grow older, the dating scene just doesn't have much appeal anymore. So now days I favor threesomes -- me, and Ben & Jerry's.

In your uniqueness and individuality you best express essence. Immediately following with a good bowel movement, helps, too.

What do you call a warrior that uses condoms two-sizes too small?


Look into a Warrior's eyes and you see dismembered body parts. It's horrific. You could try to run away, but that only angers them and you never want to anger a warrior. Angry warriors have this annoying tendency to break things, and you just hope it's not your neck.

Understanding astrology can be tricky. I'm a Libra and messy doesn't even begin to describe the calamitous cacophony of clutter that crowds my computer room in a continuous clash of creeping crud. On the other hand, my friend Shepherd is also a Libra, and if you visit his condo, you can't help but notice his obvious tidiness compulsion. I should probably explain.

With a heavy-duty arsenal of cleaning products -- defoamers, degreasers, descalers, and every other deranged word that begins with D and cleans stuff -- Shepherd is a devout practitioner of the old proverb, Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, which now puts an omnipotent, omniscient originator and ruler of the universe on his side. You can't get more cleaning power than that, folks!

In fact, after Shepherd has finished his lengthy sanitization process -- which can last from two days to the time it takes to travel several interstellar light years -- he has sent every known bacteria colony and microorganism back to the afterlife. At which point that portly, vertically challenged psychic from the movie Poltergeist arrives at his condo and seals the deal, proudly proclaiming: This House is Clean.

So here's my theory: perhaps the left side of the Libran scale is meant to be sloppy, and the right side is neurotically antiseptic. It's like the old tug-of-war between Oscar Madison and Felix Unger from the Odd Couple -- one side of the scale balances a bottle of Windex, and the other side balances a greasy pork sandwich that drips mustard on the couch. Thus, Libras apparently share a duality of both clean and filthy at the same time, or maybe if you're clean in this world, in a parallel Universe somewhere you're this horrid, foul matter that lives on a planet of sludge where raw sewage is the refreshment of choice and greasy pork sandwiches are considered the ultimate in gourmet food.

Either way, recalibrating the Libran scale might be the most hygienically appealing solution here, or you could just have a nine-thousand pound African Bull elephant crush the damn thing and end this discussion right now, since, in all honesty, that greasy pork sandwich is starting to look rather tasty.

Shepherd Hoodwin is a great Michael channel, but I've always thought he needed a cool slogan. You've all heard of Intel's ad - Intel Inside. What if Shepherd tattooed on his forehead, MICHAEL INSIDE?

It also makes me wonder what channels do if their essence decides to exit the incarnation early and a walk-in takes its place. Do they advertise to their customers: UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT?

The Michael teachings really do make sense. I have a venusian bodytype and it's characterized as lazy, indecisive, and passive. That's so true. With my venusian tendencies, the only way you'll ever track any movement from me is if you use time-lapse photography.

What do you call it when a Sage has nothing to say?


Along with mate agreements and the recently channeled ATE agreement, there are other interesting agreements that Michael students should learn about.

A personal favorite of mine is the SLEEP LATE agreement, which I've used throughout my lifetime in luxurious ways. Old sayings such as, "you're going to sleep your life away" or "you made your bed now lie in it" (usually delivered by nagging mothers), were beautiful affirmations to me that, to this day, I still take to heart. On the other hand, sayings like "lets sleep on it and talk about it in the morning" were always a disturbing paradox. While I was more than fine with the idea behind the sleeping part, the get-up-in-the-morning-to-talk-about-anything part was just cruel and unusual punishment. Sleeping is serious business, and anyone that doesn't let sleeping dogs lie, deserves a
FIGURE EIGHT agreement on their nut-sack.

HOME PLATE agreement is, of course, popular with hormonally deranged teenagers across the world, and more officially understood by mature adults as the agreement to "procreate." Although, if you are less mature and the before-mentioned teenagers are still involved, you could find yourself serving 5-to-10 years in a local state prison with a JAIL BAIT agreement. So keep Dirk Diggler in your pants, bud.

BLIND DATE agreement is another common one, and a test of courage to all those intrepid souls who firmly believe that success on a blind date doesn't have to be a near death experience. Though, in my case, the illumination I generated from going into the light so many times might explain why my blind dates tended to scurry away from me like cockroaches on a kitchen floor.

FIRST RATE agreement is probably typified best by Mary Poppins, who was perfect in every way -- that stuck-up bitch. And the I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MADE ME FUCKING WAIT agreement has been championed by most of modern society, and is the bane of all who found themselves stuck in traffic behind a line of cars so long that there appeared to be Roman chariots sitting in the front row.

Lesser known agreements include the
SECTION EIGHT agreement, the PIECES OF EIGHT agreement, the SALAD PLATE agreement, or if you just want to wash your hands of the whole thing, there's always the CLEAN SLATE agreement.

But between you and me, with all of these agreements to choose from, let's just agree to disagree.

Dave, stop it!

When I was a little kid, I used to think that was my first, middle, and last name.

A penny saved is a penny earned -- but it still takes a dollar to buy a McDouble.

I recently read that most Americans think about money more than sex. I suppose that makes sense. I often find myself thinking about sex, and then thinking about the $50 it's going to cost me.

The blind leading the blind -- probably reads Braille with someone else's hand.

(Ok, it's about farting)

My pungent presence has been the spoiler at almost every social gathering. My unexpected, clamorous eruptions have led to the mortification of all modes of society. My miasmic intoxicated existence has allowed me to stretch my long,
gaseous fingers into every level of the commonwealth, deftly bridging the gap between poverty stricken peasants to the decadent elegance of the royal crown; yet, I am an orphan.

A soulless entity, I have literally become a household name, encompassing every culture with enduring phrases that clearly define my presence. Where would the populace be without delightful epithets such as: "Did you cut the cheese?", "Was that a barking spider?", or "Did you just float a hot air biscuit?" In my own special way, I have become a part of the cornerstone of our community; if only a mere fragment in the mortar. Yet, I have few friends.

So when you aim your alimentary canal to the aft side, and send me bubbling and sputtering into an indubitably pungent existence, I ask of you just one simple favor -- think of me fondly. When your surprised friends fall to their knees, gasping for breath as you excitedly exclaim to them, "Hey, did you get a whiff of that one?", do me a simple favor -- think of me with a knowing smile. For I am part of you and the collective whole of humanity. I am the gestalt of the entire spectrum of society, and I am truly...ubiquitous.

What do you call a Artisan that builds guillotines?


Expand in consciousness. Be ready to accept anything new, at any time, even if it's an oozing glob of toe cheese that's whirling towards your face at a gazillion times the speed of light.

Whenever I clean the fridge, I have my flame thrower poised and ready in the event that some indescribably terrifying mass tries to leap out at me.

Hey, it worked with my ex-girlfriend.

Diamonds are a girl's best friend -- and a man's worst enema.

If you're stuck between a rock and a hard place, then stop having sex on the kitchen counter.

Going, going, gone -- that's what happens when your little blue pill wears off.

There's no place like home -- unless your mother-in-law lives there, too.

Life's a bitch -- and then there's divorce court.

Yesterday, an Amway distributor came to my door. I couldn't find my crucifix so I defensively shouted:  Stand back or I'll douse you with holy water!

An ex-girfriend once dragged me to a couple Amway meetings. These were frightening gatherings of young soul, right-wing conservatives who broke out into fits of teeth-gritting, eyeball ecstasy whenever someone mentioned the phrase "the plan," and when at any time it was revealed that someone had "gone diamond" -- the Holy Grail for Amway distributors -- they all stood and clapped like trained circus monkeys.

I never understood what was going on, other than when it was done we'd leave the auditorium like programmed robots, obediently mumbling "tapes, books, rallies....tapes, books, rallies....tapes, books, rallies..."

I think it was at one of the longer seminars that I first entertained notions of pouring gasoline over my head and setting myself on fire.

Yes, I'm a spoiled American and proud of it.

My advice before traveling to a small country in eastern Europe is to thoroughly partake in the four food groups before you go: Pizza Hit, Dairy Queen, McDonald's, and Taco Bell. 

During my trip I mostly stayed in Tartu, Estonia, where you couldn't find an ice cube within a hundred miles. In fact, the only way I ever got a cold drink in Tartu was from the chilly disposition of the waiters, who all give me icy stares whenever I complained that cheese pizza is suppose to have more than trace amounts of cheese on it.

On the other hand, the richly-flavored chocolate in Tartu was a surprising addiction. I bought it in liquid form and injected it straight into my veins. But pasteurized milk was just as scant as the cheese there, since it's generally thought that all milk should still be served at the body temperature of the cow. I thought that was udderly ridiculous.

All and all, Tartu was a lovely place to visit and the cobblestone streets and quaint buildings created a serene atmosphere, but be forewarned that this is a walking community. During my three-day stay there I had to invest in several pairs of walking shoes because the festering blisters on my feet had grown so large that whenever I was asleep they'd crawl out the window and scare the local residents.

The primary benefit of all this walking was readily apparent in the unusually lean bodies of the Estonian women. Hugh Hefner has obviously never heard of this country, but I'm seriously thinking of starting a magazine there. I think I could really be the big cheese -- if they only had any.

To touch the soul of another human being is to walk on holy ground -- unless you touch someone on the sidewalks of New York city, which could put you below the ground.

Friends are great big hugs from God -- who thought they were real pests so he dumped them on you.

There's no place like home -- unless a homeless person wants to share your cardboard box with you.

Off the beaten path -- is where you find the best shallow graves.

He who laughs last -- has the shortest penis.

Keep that in mind before complaining about these jokes. 



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